


Boiling Water

by reisana_devlin



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Fetish, Graphic Sex, Imprisonment, NSFW, Physical Torture, Rough Sex, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, emotional torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-17 20:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5884642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reisana_devlin/pseuds/reisana_devlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The great Grandmaster of the Templar Order toils endlessly to maintain a tenuous yet failing grip on the American colonies during the war.  As the Order's second in command, Charles Lee takes it upon himself to stop the perilous decline of his powerful leader's morale.  In doing so, he puts his life and his newly acquired position at risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charles - The Ascention

**Spring, 1780**

The day was sunny and bright and every sunset waited just a little longer to arrive each night.  Summer was near and the forests and fields surrounding Boston were coming to life in shades of vibrant green, blushing pinks and cloudy white blossoms on the trees.  With each spring came renewal of the land and for a few fortunate individuals, change.  The blankets of snow had melted and given way to sodden fields of trampled yellowed grass. The streets were lined with matted straw and puddles of mud, from the general store to the press, past the market and along the main thoroughfare to the front stoop of the Green Dragon Tavern. 

Charles willed himself to relax slightly in his chair and stretch his legs out.  With the toe of one boot, he rubbed a chunk of party dried mud from the edge of his sole and let it fall onto the spotless wooden floors of the tavern.  A young, rather attractive woman scowled at him from a shadowy corner and gripped the handle of her broom tightly in her hands.  _No matter_ , he mused wickedly.  Charles smugly reasoned it was her job to clean up after the patrons of this place.  Her role was menial and to be honest, cleaning was secondary to being a pleasant, visual distraction to the men who came here.  She fulfilled both roles well enough, especially the distraction part.  Charles allowed his eyes to rake over her shape, not bothering to be discreet.  Her loose fitting blouse and ruffled skirts beneath a soiled apron marked her as a foreigner and masked her body somewhat, but she was still an appealing creature with her long, black curls pulled partly back from her angular face and tinkling shell bracelets dancing about her slender wrists as she swept.

 When Charles was done leering openly at the girl, he turned away and resumed his rumination, brushing aside his concerns.  With the arrival of Grandmaster Haytham Kenway, she would certainly realize that Charles was not a man to be trifled with.  He had powerful, influential friends.  One day the name Charles Lee would carry the title Grandmaster.  Master Kenway had just the day before informed him that he would be the next leader of the Templar order on these shores, and today, the other men would find out about it too. 

Charles’ heart swelled with pride and satisfaction, beating faster because Master Kenway had recognized all his hard work.  Some of the former members of the Templar order had called Charles a groveling sycophant behind his back but he knew he deserved the honor.  They didn’t matter now--they had died at the hands of the enemy for their failings.  Charles would do whatever he had to to remain in such an illustrious position as the right hand of the most powerful man in the Americas. 

Charles remembered the day his beloved Grandmaster arrived in the colonies.  He had nearly fallen over himself to greet him and had extended every courtesy to the refined gentleman.  What an honor and an opportunity it had been to be given the privilege of guiding the great Haytham Kenway around Boston that day and in the weeks that followed!  Weeks turned into months, and months into years.  Through good times and bad, and even during the unexpected month or so when Haytham had disappeared and then returned, speaking only briefly of the woman he had fallen in love with and then lost, Charles’ faith had never wavered in his leader.  He had a moment of concern when he realized that Haytham’s own son was the product of that misadventure in the woods with the woman who turned out to be the same sly, indigenous creature they had briefly worked with to take down Braddock.  That concern had increased when the boy had grown from an annoying little brat into a very large problem, even taking up arms with their most hated enemy, the Assassin Brotherhood, but they were working toward ending the very real threat he had become.  Despite their challenges and losses, every step taken by Master Kenway’s side had been a step closer to this day and finally it had arrived. 

The tavern door banged open to admit the bright light from outdoors and the ever-inspiring silhouette of Grandmaster Kenway.  His hat was tipped just so and his cape settled around his sides as he paused to look at the corner of the tavern where they always gathered.  With his usual superior air, Master Kenway swept deeper into the tavern and took a seat casually across from Charles.   Charles beamed with pride inwardly but kept his face schooled to indifferent neutrality, just as his great master did. 

“Well, Lee.  Are you having any second thoughts?”  The question spoken from this legendary man’s lips caused Charles to sit straighter in his chair with shock.  How could Master Kenway doubt his dedication to this most righteous cause?  Charles spluttered his response before he could stop the outburst.

“Master Kenway!  There isn’t one iota of a second thought!  This is my life!  To serve you…. Ah, to serve the Order, that is…  It’s the greatest honor.” 

“Be at peace, Charles. ‘Twas only said in jest.  I surely know you better than that.”  With his words, Master Kenway broke his usual decorum by showing one of his rare smiles.  Charles’ heart pounded in his chest from his earlier fear, but he was relieved to know there was no doubt from Master Kenway.  Charles raised his arm and beckoned to the tavern owner. 

“Your best ale, here!  And be quick about it!”  Charles turned his attention back to the man before him at the table.  Master Kenway nodded at him and tipped his chin slightly farther up.  Charles couldn’t help but notice the way his grey-blue eyes caught the light coming in from the windows behind where Charles sat.  He was a stunning man, really, and the picture of health itself.  Charles found himself feeling weak in his presence so he looked away.  The girl with the broom caught his eye again as she moved about the tavern.  She scowled at both of them as she passed near the table and Charles felt himself wanting to reach out and snatch her wrist in his hand so he could teach her a lesson in respect.  How dare she flaunt such an insubordinate attitude in Master Kenway’s presence?  The grandmaster’s voice caught him off guard and stayed any thought of action toward the young woman, for he acknowledged her existence in a most unexpected way.

“This place is cleaner than usual.  It appears I have you to thank for it.  I apologize if I’ve made more work for you.  Spring is a ghastly time of year for mud on the boots, is it not, m’lady?”  He even tipped his hat and smiled at her!  Charles ground his teeth together as the girl stopped only a short distance from them and curtseyed rather stiffly at Master Kenway, as if she wasn’t accustomed to being subordinate.

“Yes, sir.  My thanks to you, sir.”  Her accent was atrocious, even with those few words.  The influx of foreigners in this land had increased over the years and though Charles’ master was himself a relative newcomer to this land as well, at least he had the decency to be English.  Master Kenway rummaged in the pouch at his belt and produced a coin which he extended toward the girl.

“For your troubles.”  The girl took a half step toward his outstretched hand and then hesitated.  The light caught the glint of a metal stud that pierced the crease between her nostril and the bridge of her nose.  Charles thought it repugnant.

“Please take it, my dear.”  Master Kenway said kindly, looking into her eyes as if she were a fine lady.  He motioned with the hand holding the coin and the young woman strode more confidently to him and reached her hand toward his.  She took the coin delicately in her fingers and their hands seemed to linger in contact for far longer than necessary in Charles’ opinion.  He scowled.  Certainly a man such as the Grandmaster had no need to patronize a serving girl beyond the barest minimum. 

The young woman disappeared around the corner and Charles muttered quietly to his Master.

“She’s rather brash and insubordinate for her station.  I’ll have to speak with the owner when we are done here.”

“Nonsense, Charles, I found her to be quite charming.  She has lovely eyes.” 

“Quite right, quite right…  lovely eyes…”  Charles acquiesced, sitting back in his seat and remembering that the woman Master Kenway had dallied with over twenty five years ago had also had eyes of darkest brown and hair just as black as that young woman’s.  Thinking further on her appearance, Charles recalled a certain angular set to the Indian woman’s jaw that was somewhat mirrored in the serving woman’s features.  Though much paler than the mother of Master Kenway’s bastard son, her complexion was by no means light enough to pass for English.  Between her appearance and accent, she was clearly one of the people who occupied the harbor with their whaling ships and sailed the seas from the western coast of Portugal and the islands just beyond.  She filled a commercial and serving class purpose, nothing more. 

Perhaps Master Kenway was simply feeling nostalgic for a simpler time.  His Assassin bastard had caused much more trouble than they thought possible, and the stress of it had begun to tell in a certain rigidity of posture and determined mind set.  The two factions had tried to work together for a time, but it had been disastrous on all accounts.  Charles had even gone off and made nice with one of the other tribes in the area, going so far as to bed a woman from the tribe as a gesture of good will and an effort to emulate his master, but he had found no lasting joy in it, for sadly, he was not the same man as Master Kenway.  No matter how he tried, Charles could never love a woman of lowly ancestry.  Embarrassed by his own prejudices in the presence of a man who had none but his loyalty to the Order, he forced his mind to silence.  Perhaps with time he could reflect such substance and equanimity.

Losing so many good men to his own son had begun to wear away the will of Master Kenway.  Charles could no longer deny that the Grandmaster had been weakened by the many tragic losses to the underpinnings of the Templar Order here, though he hated to admit it.  Together, they would continue to fight valiantly for the Order and though the time would come that Haytham would need to kill his bastard son, Charles was certain the Grandmaster would be capable of dealing that death blow necessary to end the Assassin’s terrible winning streak.  He had to.  For the Order. 

“Charles, I’d like to make some plans of surety.  As you are more than well aware, we’ve suffered significant losses because of the Assassins and, namely, my… my son.”  It was as if the Grandmaster had read Charles’ mind.  Charles did not react with emotion to his Master’s words.  He merely nodded gravely and listened as he continued. 

“I’ve made mistakes.  It is only right that in light of that, I demarcate a clear successor to my position.  That successor is you, as we talked about yesterday.  You have shown remarkable dedication to the Order and I’m confident you will provide the strength and mental fortitude needed to lift the Order up and take hold of its proper place in this land of opportunity.  The new men we take in must respect you.  Uphold the Order at any expense.  I’ve made sure you’ll never lack for resources.” 

The Grandmaster’s tone spoke more than his words.  He doubted himself much more than Charles had first thought.  The concept was frightening.  If this man, this…. near deity in Charles’ opinion, was falling, how could he stand in his place as successor, next in line, _the next Grandmaster of the Colonial Order_? 

Fear and worry gripped Charles in a fist of uncertainty.  It circled his mind for the rest of the evening, blotting out much of the solemn happiness surrounding his promotion.  Self-doubt never failed to make Charles irritable.   The three new initiates they had found, one of which was Master Kenway’s informant who had the unfortunate nickname of Twitch due to the way he always flared his nostrils while speaking, were an excitable bunch.  They were openly fond of the drink, much to Charles’ disapproval, but Master Kenway indulged it on this merry night.  Charles avoided public drinking as much as he could, for he knew his own propensities.  He had fallen victim to the cups on more than one occasion since everything had begun to fall apart so rapidly and he needed his wits about him if he could manage to abstain.  It wouldn’t do for the others to see him collapse in a pool of his own vomit at such a pivotal crossing.  The thought of falling into a blissful, drunken chasm of forgetfulness to escape the whirling negative thoughts in his head was nearly too much of a temptation, so Charles put his mug of ale on the table and excused himself to take a turn by the window. 

At the front window Charles watched the passers by and breathed the cold night air deeply, trying to block out the noise and babble of clinking glasses, raucuous laughter and the boisterous commotion of too many bodies filling a small space.  He stroked his mustache and idly fingered one end before scratching under the collar of his shirt.  It was a habit he had been trying to break but he couldn’t stop the nervous need to tear his itchy skin off.  When he remembered to treat his peeling, reddened patches of skin with a mixture of bees wax and oil, it seemed to be less inflamed but the changing of the seasons always made it flake and itch far worse.  His arms and legs had had this condition for years but lately the redness had spread to other places.  The patch of it on the back of his neck itched terribly from his necktie and he had had to invest in several silk ties simply because they were less irritating.  He pulled at it now and resented the financial excess. 

Taking a final deep breath of the crisp night air, Charles paused to clear his mind before he strode back toward the table with his head down.  As he passed by another group of patrons, a drunk man was attempting to coerce the girl with the broom to leave with him. He took the end of her apron tie in his hand and to Charles’ shock, she adeptly struck his hand away from her with the handle of her broom.  Charles turned his head to follow her as she stormed away.  Master Kenway had seen it as well and he commented on the scene as Charles retook his seat. 

“She’s more than meets the eye!  That chap will think twice about where he puts his hands from now on I’ll wager.”  There was laughter in the Grandmaster’s tone, as well as a hint of admiration in his voice that put Charles into an even deeper well of blackness.  He thought her behavior insufferable and grossly out of line but he kept his thoughts to himself.  The sight of his Master approving of that girl’s bad behavior dislodged even more negativity in Charles.  He suddenly felt the need to escape the presence of so many people in order to preserve his thin veneer of dignity.

“Indeed, sir.  Well I must retire for the night.  I fear I must make ready for the morrow.”  Charles was nearly shaking when he finally took his leave after accepting the congratulations of his companions once more.  All vestiges of happy pretense fell away from him when he was out of sight.  He was not the man he wished he could be.  Not the man Master Kenway wanted him to be.  He surely tried, but deep down, he knew he was a fraud. On the way to his accommodations, he stopped and purchased a bottle of cheap whiskey.  Before he was a dozen steps from the general store he’d opened the bottle and begun to drink.  Already lost to one vice, Charles considered finding a girl to tend to him.  He needed help to release some of the stress and worries that ate away at him as he contemplated the daunting challenge of one day succeeding Master Kenway as Grandmaster here in the colonies.


	2. Charles - The Decline

The battle against the Assassins was going nowhere good.  At every turn, their leader thwarted the Templars’ plans.  Master Kenway had taken to pacing his rented rooms from one side to the other with his hands clasped behind his back.  At times he would mutter or pause and gesture into the air with one hand, as if having a conversation with an apparition.  Charles futilely attempted to calm him by offering him a chair or a drink.  Occasionally he would accept, but never for more than a few moments’ peace before he would be on his feet again, pacing, pacing. 

In one of Master Kenway’s rare moments of quietude, Charles took a seat facing a window in the far corner of the room.  The sun shone hotly through the glass, and both men removed their outer coats.  It was only June, but the heat was intolerable.  Master Kenway removed his hat and placed it on his writing desk.  He was scribbling furiously in the worn journal he always had on his person. 

The sound of the Grandmaster’s hand slamming down on the wooden desk, accompanied simultaneously by his shout broke the silence. 

“Blast!  The boy trifles with me, and I can do nothing!” 

“Sir…  Pardon, but I’d not call him boy any longer.  He is a man grown and a considerable foe.” Charles broke off his words as Master Kenway stood up and turned his head in his direction.

“Do you think me mad, Lee?  I know this.  I know it well.  It haunts my every MOMENT!”  At his final word, nearly shouted, Master Kenway flung his hat and journal off of the desk with a swipe of his arm.  The hat bounced off of a wall and returned nearly to its owner’s feet, but the journal landed on the floor and slid under the chair Charles occupied. 

“Blast! Blast! **BLAST**!”  Each word was punctuated by the man’s fist  slamming hard against the desk.  Charles had never seen his Master so enraged.  It was the first time he had ever so fully broken from decorum.  Charles stood and took up his coat.  As he shrugged it onto his shoulders and began to button it, he spoke quietly, for fear of angering his Master further.

“I will give you a moment to collect yourself, sir.”  Charles picked up the journal and walked over to place the leather-bound book back on the desk.  Master Kenway sat down and rested his elbows on the desk, breaching etiquette further.  To add insult to injury, he rested his forehead down against his fingertips and remained still for several silent moments.  He had never appeared so old to Charles as he did in that moment.  Here was a man out-gunned, outsmarted, and out-maneuvered by his own progeny.  It must be taxing beyond measure.  Master Kenway lifted his tired, care-worn face up and spoke to Charles’ retreating form.

“I apologize, Charles.  I lost control of myself.  Forgive me.  Perhaps this untimely heat has addled my wits.  The day is yours, old friend.  Don’t waste it here with me.  There’s nothing to be done at this very moment, so let us seek clarity after some rest.”

“Will you rest, sir?”  Charles doubted the man was capable of rest, even as the Master nodded his head tiredly in affirmation. 

“Good day to you then.”  Charles left his Master in his rooms and descended the stairs of the private home in Arlington occupied by an elderly widow who had no use for the upper level.  She rented to Master Kenway, and he generally had the run of the place.  Her servant did her work and was discreet.  It was an amenable arrangement. 

Charles mounted his horse and spurred it East toward the waterfront.  The buzz and tick of crickets in the grass and cicadas in the trees above joined the gritty sounds of the horse’s shoes grinding against  the gravel. The cacophony of sounds were extraordinarily loud given the headache that had been building in him all morning. Giving in to the pointless nature of attempting to solve this particularly grievous puzzle at hand, he chose to distract himself in a way that could always win even in the most trying of circumstances—a quick tumble with a nimble lass would relax him, yes. 

The brothel was tucked away in a shaded, minimally travelled part of Boston.  The women there weren’t much to look at compared to the somewhat nicer but far more expensive women closer to the port district, but with enough spirits available to quench any traveler’s thirst, appearances  weren’t as much of a care in the end.  Charles knew he wasn’t the kind of man women were eager to be intimate with.  His body wasn’t as hard and lean as Master Kenway’s.  Even the whores never failed to flinch and hesitate when he revealed his skin to them, and they saw how his disease of the flesh marred his soft body with angry splotches and livid grooves.  Because his disease marked him as distinctly as when a cat sharpens its claws against wood, Charles refused to remove his long shirt  during bouts of paid coitus, which brought him teasing criticism from the women instead.  It was a much more tolerable exchange than looks of disgust and knowing they wondered if he was contagious in some way.  It also conveniently hid the rather doughy nature of his abdomen and chest, something he had never been able to rectify even after years of military service and as he and his brothers worked to root out the pesky Assassins.

Having a limitless supply of alcohol in the room cost more, but today Charles did not care.  Luck was on his side for one of the more fetching girls was available when he walked through the door. He immediately snapped his fingers at the diminutive blonde girl with the crooked nose and pointed to the nearest open door.  He dropped the requisite amount of money into the hands of the brothel owner, took a bottle of rum in his his vacant hand, and shut the door behind him.  The girl smiled at him.  She didn’t have the best teeth but then again, he really shouldn’t be picky.  He could have gotten the one with the big feet and gnarled toes.  Charles _hated_ feet.                                                                                                                          

“And what can I do for you?”  The girl queried, her voice a husky purr and her hands delicately plucking at his upturned collar.  It didn’t matter whether she _wanted_ anything to do with him; she would pretend to be excited about him no matter what because he’d paid for her. 

“You can be silent.  Undress.  Be quick about it.”  The girl wrinkled her nose in disgust and slipped out of her dress. Charles raised the bottle of rum to his mouth, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and spit it onto the floor.  The girl wore no shift beneath her dress, but her body was acceptable.  She was delicate and willowy like the marsh grasses found near rivers, slender but well-fed and resilient despite her station. Charles took a long swig from the bottle and beckoned to her.  She stepped closer, and he swept her hair away from her chest so he could see her better.  Charles pinched her nipple hard, and she yelped in pain.

“I said, ‘be silent.’”  He squeezed and slapped her breast, twisting her nipple but she held in her pain admirably.  When both nipples were adequately hard and her breasts reddened to Charles’ satisfaction, he gave her left breast one last slap.

“Now, take off my boots and breeches, and get to work.”  The girl dutifully unbuckled his boots, and Charles sat on the bed so she could pull them off.  He drank several gulps of the rum as she worked and continued to keep the bottle raised close to his mouth when she unbuttoned his breeches and pulled them down.  When they were off, she folded them and draped them over a nearby chair.  She knelt down between his knees but then hesitated.  Charles reached down and took a large section of her hair in his unoccupied hand.   He was still sweating from the heat of the day and the long ride to get there.  The stuffy room wasn’t helping, and he could feel sweat running down his neck from his thinning hair.  Some of it had fallen free of his ponytail and was wetly sticking to his neck.  As soon has his pants had come off he had smelled the distinct odor of his equally warm and sweaty genitals.  He’d bathe after he’d had his way with this girl and not a moment sooner.   He tightened his fingers in her hair and she flinched as he yanked her closer.  Her blue eyes widened  before squeezing shut tightly as she worked his sour length.  _What a shame_ , he mused wryly. Her subservient eyes were her best feature.  But Charles closed his own eyes and enjoyed the way her mouth and tongue brought him steadily closer to climax.  She did it well and only choked a little, even when he ejaculated into her mouth. 

Their time together wasn’t nearly exhausted so Charles waited for his body to recuperate and continued to drink from his bottle.  To entertain himself, he idly pinched the girl’s inner thighs and labia repeatedly.  The soft skin of her labia flushed red and swelled up.  Charles pushed his fingers into her roughly.  She squirmed in pain and a tear ran down her cheek but at least she was silent as he had asked.  When he tired of his game, Charles lay back on the bed.  His rather unkind attentions were already more than adequate to make her nice and tight for him.

“Do the rest of your work, and then begone.”  The girl, whimpering silently, climbed onto him, and he kneaded her breasts roughly while she obediently lowered herself onto his reawakened erection. Just as he was expecting, the going wasn’t easy for her, but her obvious suffering aroused him further.  Charles couldn’t help telling her how much he loved seeing it. 

“I do enjoy an anguished woman.  Your distress is quite becoming.”  The moment he gave his final grunting thrust and released his painful grip on her hips, she leapt off of him, gathered her discarded clothes, and bolted from the room naked.  Charles didn’t mind.  He preferred it that way because he closed his eyes and slept as peacefully as the blanketed winter plains of the undiscovered frontier.

Charles woke as the sun sank beneath the horizon  and sat up in the brothel’s bed.  His flaccid penis was stuck to his skin with dried semen.   Charles clicked his tongue, irate with the discomfort created by having to reach for the nearby ewer to clean himself.  He should have made the girl clean him before she scurried off.    At least his headache from earlier was gone, and he felt pleasantly relaxed and uncoiled from the stress of being second-in-command in the Colonial Rite.  He hoped Master Kenway felt better as well.  Frowning, Charles knew the Grandmaster probably would have spent the afternoon writing in that blasted journal instead of putting his feet up.  That man needed the respite only a woman’s body could give, but the great Haytham Kenway would never be caught setting foot anywhere near a brothel.  Charles thought about how he could convince Master Kenway to let his guard down enough to be free with a willing woman.  It would be easier to convince him that he could fly if he simply jumped from the top branches of a tree or the steeple of a church.   


	3. Charles - The Nadir

Charles noted the lack of the pretty little cleaning girl who swept the floors of the Green Dragon Tavern when the Grandmaster commented on the dirt, broken glass and crumbs littering the floorboards.  It had been some weeks since he’d seen her once he thought of it, but other than the concern of his Master’s, Charles wasn’t bothered in the least by her absence.  Many of the ships that had left Boston Harbor in the fall had returned when summer arrived in full force, laden with their wealth from the seas.  She had probably gone back to hawk her family’s lowly wares in the filth of the piers.  It made sense for her to make herself useful on land when she would only be a burden at sea.  He said as much to Master Kenway with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“She’s a vagrant woman, sir.  Not much better than gypsies, those Portuguese whalers.  I’d counted myself lucky to have all my coins in my possession whenever we left here.  Good riddance at last, I say.  There’s no need for their kind here.”  Charles barked out a short laugh when he was finished.

“Really, Charles, for someone so well-traveled you shouldn’t be half as bigoted as all that.  I know the opinion you have for my son, and I cannot argue with the majority of your reasons for it, but with regards to his heritage or that of another’s… I thank you _not_ to bring it into the conversation.  I won’t ask again.”  Haytham only looked at him for the duration of his speech, turning back to the windowless wall of the tavern as he finished his terse request.  Charles lowered his eyes to his hands in his lap and wrung them beneath the table. 

The day had already begun miserably when Charles had woken at his favorite brothel in the late morning.  He overstayed the time allotted by sleeping late and had had to pay an additional fee.  His head pounded dully from his drinking the night previous, and in his haste to arrive before the appointed meeting time at the Green Dragon, he hadn’t had time to properly wash up from last night’s fragmented memories of drink and debauchery.  He’d run out of the brothel with his shirttails untucked, whipped his mount mercilessly into a full gallop, and only allowed the poor beast to slow down once he was within sight of the Tavern.  Between the stress, intense mid-August heat and his unwashed state, his flesh crawled and the effort it took to not scratch himself made him anxious and fidgety.  The Grandmaster had already commented on his agitation once shortly after he’d arrived so Charles was determined not to let it happen again.

If only he had the will to resist the temptations of drink and prostitutes as religiously as the Grandmaster!  Surely, if Master Kenway knew how frequently he fell into such revolting and frequent depravity, he’d expel him from the Order and dismiss him from the city completely.  The thought of such utter shame made Charles nearly gasp in horror.  Instead, he took several measured breaths and attempted to slow his racing heart.  Sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades and for a brief moment Charles believed he might vomit but the feeling passed.  Completely cowed, he silently swore never to touch a drop of spirits or a woman ever again while knowing in his heart of hearts he wouldn’t even last a week.

“My apologies, Grandmaster.”  At Charles’ words, Haytham merely nodded curtly.  The issue was closed, but Charles had clearly angered the man.  His hands shook beneath the table, and it took great effort on Charles’ part to participate in the meeting more than sitting in mere silence.  He could barely hear the conversation due to his ears ringing and his racing heart making him dizzy.  At least, with he and his fellow Templars working on scraping together a better plan of action to disrupt the Assassin resistance, nothing of any great consequence would be ready to be put into play for some months.

Instead of accompanying Master Kenway back to his accommodations in Arlington to converse further as they were often known to do, Charles went to an old salt box style house in Cambridge where he rented two rooms in the basement of the house, using one room as his bedroom and the other as his living space.  The ceilings hung low, and there was only one window in his bedroom but he needed no more than a few things to live.   He momentarily longed for the stately opulence of Hob Goblin Hall, an inspiring mansion he had taken for himself and occupied briefly in Medford before the irascible Washington made him abandon it to move closer to the heart of the city.  He was opposed to wasting his own money on frivolity other than the secret ones of the flesh, so his current accommodations were sparse and simple.

Once inside, Charles forgot his petty grudge against the military commander when his small, excitable black Pomeranian greeted him by leaping up and pawing his leg.  The dog was only two years old and had not yet mellowed.  His first Pomeranian, Spado, had been cruelly taken from him in 1776 and he’d spent months afterwards searching for another appropriately singular animal during his moments of free time.  Charles bent down and patted the long, soft fur almost absent-mindedly and then let the dog out to do his business.  He bolted back inside immediately after relieving himself on a bush to continue seeking attention from his preoccupied master, but Charles was too distracted by his divisive thoughts to pay any more attention to the small dog, despite his love for it.  He stripped down, dropping his clothes onto the dusty floorboards.  The dog nosed around the pile of clothing, but, not finding anything of interest, settled for curling up on top of the clothes and resting his head down on his paws to watch his master. When Charles was naked, he poured water into an ewer to wash.  The small, blurry mirror above the stand reflected a pale, sallow man with brighter blue irises than he had seen in most people other than himself but also dark marks beneath them of exhaustion and abuse of alcohol.  The skin of his chest and stomach sagged slightly, giving his body a fleshy, porcine appearance.  He had a profusion of dark body hair that thinned in two circles surrounding his nipples, beneath his arms and the sides of his abdomen.   He ran a hand slowly over his chest and then up onto the side of his receding hairline and sighed.  The reflection of truth betrayed him, making him appear older than his forty-eight years. 

Charles retrieved a small glass vial of Benson’s Restoring Hair Vigour Oil from his coat pocket, being careful not to disturb his sleeping dog, and returned to the mirror to spread some of it on his scalp.  He rubbed it in with his finger tips and smoothed the rest of what remained on his fingers into the length of his hair.  It caused his unbound hair to adhere to itself and separate into sticky sections but Charles was desperate to reverse the hair loss he suffered from.  Wigs were detestable to him and to be avoided at all costs.  Master Kenway wore no such pretentious things so neither would he.  Charles’ thoughts once more turned to his Master’s earlier reproach and he frowned at his reflection.

Charles felt filthy and horrid, but no amount of scrubbing could wash away the sin soaking every dark crevice of his heart.  Bits of dried skin sloughed off his arms and for every flake that fell, Charles’ self-loathing increased.  He dropped to his knees and let the rag fall beside him.  Rage replaced the hate in Charles’ heart, and he used his fingernails to scratch at the patches of afflicted skin until he was bleeding in several places.  At last, he rested his head against the wall and shook with shame.  He was a hideous, fallacious creature, led along by base desires and much greedier than was socially acceptable.  Generally, Charles took pride in his seeking of wealth and status but after the blows of the day, he shunned his flawed ambition.  A drop of blood ran down his arm, and he opened his eyes to watch it creep slowly towards where his hand rested on his leg.  It was diverted by the raised cracks in one of his reddened skin patches and took a circuitous path around it.  Before it was much past his elbow, Charles wiped his arm on his leg.  The blood left a streaky line across his skin, striated by the sparse, longish hairs that covered his thigh like a thinning carpet of weeds scattered haphazardly by the wind.  The dog got up and came over to him, whining as he sensed his master’s mood.  Charles stroked the dog’s fur and found some comfort for his unconditional love. 

“Good boy, Beowulf.  I’m better for your company over that of most men.”  The animal yipped once in reply and began licking the blood on Charles’ leg.

He ached for a drink, but he shook his head and clenched his teeth in denial.  Images of the nameless, immoral women he had spent many of his nights with made him sigh in resignation as he gently picked up Beowulf, crawled into his bed and set the dog beside him on the blankets.  Every little sound of life outside his walls ricocheted in his aching head, so he pressed his face into the pillow to shut out the light of late afternoon.  There was no one else to hurt but himself, and wretched, pathetic creature that he was, he deserved every last bit of it.  

* * *

 

A month and a half later, Charles, the Grandmaster, and the other men gathered in Boston to celebrate the news of the Assassins’ Continental army allies suffering a sullied win at West Point.  Though they had captured the fort and repelled the British, they had lost their Major General Benedict Arnold.  It was a massive blow to the Assassins’ morale, and Haytham hoped to capitalize on it by planning their next move with that in mind. 

The wind had kicked up fiercely, and temperatures had dropped unseasonably low for late September when Charles departed the Green Dragon Tavern well after midnight.  He pulled his jacket tightly around his body and tucked his hands under his arms.  He was feeling a bit unsteady on his feet, for he had managed to resist drinking anything since the Grandmaster had so thoroughly upbraided him with only a few words.  Tonight had been a cause for celebration so Charles had imbibed.  He hadn’t been able to stop until he felt that familiar warmth and subtle delay in his vision when he turned his head.

Desiring to clear his mind of the turmoil and self-loathing bubbling up, Charles took the reins of his horse and led the animal towards the piers.  Some of the last few large ships remaining in port rocked on the waves.  Even with their sails furled, their bulky presence wasn’t immune to the heavy gusts blowing across from the west.  Lanterns swayed from posts on one of the ships, and a small figure pushed past a group of a few men gathered beneath the orange glow.  They were shadows in the night with the sides of their bodies closest to the lantern illuminated in a ghostly way by the dancing flames.  Boisterous laughter and conversation mingled with the crashing of waves, but by the time the sounds reached Charles they were distorted by the whipping wind and reduced to a muddled discordance.  The next gust of wind carried a few snowflakes with it, and Charles tugged his collar up to ward off the bitter cold. 

The small figure drew closer, and Charles watched over the back of his horse’s saddle as it advanced.  Swathed in a heavy, hooded cloak of furs and wool, he realized the tiny person was a woman when she passed a short stone’s throw away.  Something about her nagged at a dusty corner of Charles’ mind; he turned to watch the woman as she approached a dimly lit window of a store.  She knocked softly on the glass and then reached up to pull her furred hood back when it was opened to her.  Bracelets clinked on her wrists, and the wind blew long, dark curls forward around her head, obscuring her face.  A man, hidden from sight barked a few words, causing the woman to fish out a paper and small bag of coins from beneath the heavy cloak and pass both through the window.  The owner of the gruff voice snatched the items from the woman’s hand, shutting the window loudly.  Shifting her feet, the woman waited, pulling her hood back up to shield her head from the wind.  The long hair that had been released by her initial unveiling still blew and twisted about in front of her, but she was unperturbed by the vortex of curls swirling around her face.  After only a minute, the window was opened again, and a small crate of goods was passed to her.  As soon as she had it in her hands and had cradled the box upwards against her chest, the window slammed shut again.  

“Amaldiçoado sejas por respirar, ó palonço embasbacado!”    The woman’s voice was soft, but Charles was near enough to pick up her words before they were scattered in the gusty night wind.  It had been some time since Charles had been in Portugal so he wasn’t completely clear on the meaning of her invective, but her tone was quite obvious.  She’d cursed the man for breathing the same air as she did, and insulted him further by implying he was a fool.   At the same moment, she turned around to return to her ship, and the wind blew her hair away from her face, whipping it back behind her hood.  A small glint of light flashed as her nose stud captured the light from a lantern hanging overhead, and instantly Charles realized who she was. It was the former maid at the Green Dragon tavern that Master Kenway had taken a liking to but who Charles had despised.  Something inexplicable took hold of him that he couldn’t prevent.  Before he could stop himself, he dropped the reins of his horse and stepped into her path.  The woman lifted her face to his gaze, and the angular lines of her jaw and her dark, furious eyes were unmistakable. 

“Excuse me, miss, but might I carry that for you?”  Charles heard his own voice through a thick fog; he sounded odd and distant to his own ears.  

“No, you might not.  Good night.”  Her accent was the same as Charles remembered.  The woman tried to sidestep around him, but Charles reached out and seized her forearm.  She turned her body away to break his grip while still clasping her burden, but Charles pulled her closer and latched onto her other arm.  The quick movement took her by surprise; Charles used what he had learned from years of combat as well as his more recent Templar training to wrench her hands away from the crate, allowing it to fall to the cobblestones and break open, scattering potatoes, winter squashes, and a few other general goods onto the frozen cobblestones.  At the same moment, he whirled her around so her back was flush against him.  Just as a scream bubbled from her throat, he locked his hand over her mouth.  The girl kicked and writhed, and Charles tightened his grip on her–she was surprisingly strong for her size!  He crouched, taking her down with him, and her kicking feet knocked some potatoes away. Charles adjusted his hand to cover both her mouth and nose.  She thrashed frantically, her fingers clawing at his hands until her body spasmed and drooped, boneless from lack of air.

Charles held her tightly for a moment longer, panting heavily from the scuffle.  Abruptly, his senses returned to him.  The woman was unconscious, and Charles lifted his hand away from her face.  Looking around, no one seemed to have noticed the commotion.  It had really only taken a minute to do the deed, but what a deed it was!  Her head lay against his elbow, and she was breathing shallowly.  When the wind let up for a moment, he caught the scent of dried citrus and sweet spices coming from her clothing and the strands of hair that had become caught up in the buttons of his coat. He contemplated leaving her there on the road, but if she died her blood would stain his hands.  He would be even more of a disappointment to Master Kenway than before.

Charles shook himself, gathered the woman’s body up, and rose to his feet.  He slung her over his horse face down and positioned her so it appeared that she had settled forward onto the mare’s neck, asleep in the company of her guardian.  He took the reins and walked beside the horse’s body, keeping a hand on the woman’s back to steady her.  She stirred when he led his horse into the stable in Cambridge.  Afraid of her making a scene, he took a moment in the stall to cover her mouth and nose again until she fell completely unconscious once more.  Though it was the dead of night in the rural town he called home, Charles still checked that no one was out and about at that time who might see him and his companion.   When he was sure no one was out at such an ungodly hour, he picked the woman up and carried her into the house. 

Charles had no sitting room so there weren’t any pieces of furniture adequate in size to accommodate the girl, small as she was, except his bed.  _That was out of the question_.  Charles dumped her on the floor a little more roughly than he had planned.  Beowulf materialized immediately, not interested in anything but the strange woman lying on the floor.  He sniffed her hair and licked her face, but the woman didn’t stir; she only breathed deeper.  As Charles’ sense continued to return to him, terror joined with it.  He had made an awful mistake in taking this woman here!  He should have left her on the cold cobblestones near the piers!  Better yet, he should never have spoken to her when he recognized her.  _What was he thinking?_ Panic swelled in his throat, and he rummaged through his belongings until he found a length of rope.  Using his knife to saw the line in half, he trussed her ankles and wrists tightly.  Realizing she might awaken and succeed in screaming, he shoved a rag into her mouth.  Another rag tied around her head held it in place so she couldn’t spit it out and scream when she came to.    Beowulf sniffed and whined while Charles secured the woman, so he let the dog outside. Perhaps the dog would find some amusement other than interfering with his task, or worse, getting too comfortable with the wench. 

Charles dragged the woman into his bedroom and pushed her limp form under his bed.  After standing in the center of the room pondering what to do next, an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion washed over him.  He let the dog back inside, and to his dismay, watched the curious pooch scoot under the bed to continue examining their visitor.  

“Beowulf!  Come here, boy!  She’s below your station!”  The animal ignored him in favor of the more interesting person under the bed so Charles gave up and lay down.  He listened to Beowulf’s continued sniffing while he stared at the ceiling and tried to convince himself he was dreaming a wretched and terrible nightmare, heart racing and mind somersaulting inside his skull.


	4. Charles - The Ambivalence

Charles felt foggy and confused in the grey light of early morning.   He didn’t want to open his eyes but an annoying sound forced him to do so.  Something was scraping and knocking on the floor.  Beowulf was whining.  Charles wondered if he had gotten into something he shouldn’t have but then he remembered.  He leapt off the bed and Beowulf yipped excitedly as Charles crouched down.  Under his bed, the woman froze and stared wild-eyed at him for a long moment.  Her hair was tousled and a mess, bunched up around the cloth gag and tangled in her fingers where she had tried without success to pull the gag out of her mouth.  Charles reached out to grab her but she thrashed and squirmed away, deeper under his bed, causing dust and lint to rise and shift around her.  Beowulf ran back and forth behind Charles excitedly and the sound of his claws on the hard wood floors almost drowned out the strangled sounds of the woman’s muffled screams.

At last, and only by forcibly lifting the heavy wooden bed frame up at an angle, Charles managed to grab hold of the rope connecting her wrists to her ankles and drag the girl out from under his bed.  She rolled and twisted away in an ungainly fashion as he used both hands to lower the bed back down as quietly as possible.  Like a worm in the death throes of being soaked in grain alcohol, the girl writhed on the floor in a slow, jerky creep away from him toward his partially opened bedroom door.  The dog bounded excitedly out to the front room, thinking it was all some sort of game, perhaps.  Turning his attention to the woman once again, Charles crawled forward quickly and trapped her on her side.  Her thrashing intensified and she no longer bothered screaming, for she was simply trying to breathe around the gag.  Finally she stilled, panting.  Tears leaked from her eyes and left clean, wet tracks down her dusty face.  She was out of breath and sweating so Charles took pity on her and decided to take off her fur lined cloak for her.  As soon as he reached for the clasps she shook her head and tried to get away again, letting out strangled, muffled squeaks and whimpers.

“Hold _still_ , you heathen!”  Charles rasped at her.  He fought her struggles and eventually wrenched her cloak off of her body.  Beowulf came to the doorway and crouched down, barking excitedly and leaping his front legs off the floor repeatedly.   The girl fought even harder, arching and rounding her back feverishly.  Charles forced her onto her back, held her shoulders down and used his knee and boot to push her legs out straight.  The rope connecting her ankles to her wrists pulled her arms down away from her chest and she began to shake and weep harder. 

“Be still!  Be still, girl!  I need to think!”  Charles watched her as her dark brown eyes darted around the room in terror.  She gasped for breath through her nose, making her nostrils move with the force of it.  Charles watched the little piercing in her nose move and catch the light with every breath.  She wore several necklaces around her neck and they pooled in disarray on the floor beneath her and in her hair. Charles didn’t remember those from the last time he saw her.  She also wore small gold hoops in her ears that she most definitely hadn’t had when she worked at the Green Dragon.  Beowulf tapped his way over and began snuffling at the girl’s face, licking her tear marked cheeks until she turned her face away.  As she turned her head, Charles saw that one earlobe bled slightly from her piercing, no doubt a result of their recent struggles. Her skin was suntanned to a rather shocking golden hue from the long summer months living on the ship docked at the Boston pier he had seen her come from just the night before.  Her ruffled blouse and skirts had colorful embroidery along every edge and hem they matched the green sash around her waist but all her clothes were still rather simplistic and plebian looking compared to that of proper society.  She was every bit a member of the Portuguese whaling community, and in Charles’ opinion, a rash on the ass of every harbor along the North East coast from Quebec to Pennsylvania. 

Nothing came to Charles’ mind on how to rectify this situation.  None of his strategic military experience could help him here.  He couldn’t just let her go because he would certainly be arrested for kidnapping.  He couldn’t kill her in cold blood.  Charles looked at her calmly for a long while.  Beowulf sat down next to her head and panted at Charles with his tongue lolling out of his pointed little snout.  The girl held still and looked back at him.  Her body trembled ever so slightly under his hands and she blinked first. 

“Swear to me you will not scream.”  Charles reached one hand toward her face and she turned away.

“Fine.  Keep it on, then.”  The girl turned back and pleaded with her eyes.  Charles reached over and pulled the rag around her face down and tugged the other rag out of her mouth.  Her lips and cheeks flushed red from the release of pressure on her face.   She opened and closed her jaw a few times and then worked at getting moisture back into her mouth.  Charles watched her for any sign that she’d scream and betray their presence.  She took a breath to speak and he hovered his hand near enough to cover her mouth if she disobeyed him. 

“Who are you? Why have you done this to me?”  Her voice was dry and hoarse.  Charles frowned at her.  Did she truly not know him?  A surge of anger poured through him.

“Foolish girl!  I’m the second most powerful man in the American colonies!  And soon enough, I’ll be the MOST powerful man.”  The girl looked at him carefully and then around at their surroundings again, eyeing the dog beside her until he yipped. 

“I don’t believe you.  If you are who you say, then why do you live in this shit hole?”  Her words were heinously out of line and Charles ground his teeth, sneering at her ignorance.  He shook his head angrily, grabbed up the gag and forced it back into the girl’s mouth.  What insolence spills from her lips!  The girl tossed her head from side to side and Beowulf leapt up to run circles around the two of them but Charles managed to get the rag back up around her face.  He rolled her onto her side and retied the rope between her wrists and ankles until they were much closer together.  She struggled the whole time and went into near convulsions of fighting when he pushed her back under his bed.  If she would be so audacious, she could keep there for a while.  To ensure that she wouldn’t escape, Charles relocated a heavy dresser to block the side and then piled every bit of tack, baggage and other weighty items he could find on top of the bed so she couldn’t shift it. 

He barred the window, picked up his dog, slammed his bedroom door shut behind him and left the house.  It wasn’t until evening that he bothered to return. 

He opened the bedroom door to the unmistakable odor of urine.  He turned and used his foot to block Beowulf from following him and shut the door.  The sounds of pounding and muffled shouting came from under his bed so he moved his dresser aside.  The sounds stopped immediately and the room was silent.  Charles got down on his hands and knees to look at the girl.  She watched him silently and from what little he could see of her face in the shadows, she hated him with every ounce of her will.  Charles reached under and dragged the girl out.  Her skirts were wet and pungent from her accident and he cursed himself for not thinking of that very real scenario.  Hatred and humiliation were written all over her expression and she alternately glared at him and looked away in shame.  Her hands and fingers were bloodied and bruised, no doubt from hitting the floor and wall and from attempting to move the bed and furniture that kept her trapped. 

Producing his knife, he held it up and then pointed at her bonds.  She nodded eagerly.  He sawed the rope through that connected her wrists and ankles and let her stretch her body out on the floor.  A small moan of pained relief escaped around the gag. 

Charles waited until he was sure he had her full attention. 

“Now….  You’re going to take off your dress and wash yourself.”  The girl’s eyes opened wide and she shook her head vehemently.  Angered at her continued defiance, Charles leaned close to her face.

“Yes!  You’ll do as I say or I’ll do it for you!  And if you fight me….  I’ll kill you.”  He didn’t really believe his own words but they seemed to be effective enough for the girl.  She became very still and she nodded slowly.  Charles untied her ankles and used the rope to form a loop with a slip knot. He sat her up, dropped it over her head and tightened it around her neck so he had a form of leash on her.  He then untied her wrists, taking hold of the leash with one hand when they were loose enough for him to pull the rope off with just the other.  The girl rubbed her wrists when she was free and looked with trepidation at Charles. 

“Go on, then.  But don’t forget I have _this_.”  Charles tugged on the rope and it tightened easily on her neck.  She grabbed it with her hands and loosened it immediately with fear in her eyes.  Slowly, she drew her knees up and unlaced her soft, strange whaleskin boots to remove them.  She untucked her loose blouse from her skirts and unwrapped the wide, green sash that circled her waist.  She folded the sash slowly and placed it beside her boots.  Her hands began to shake as she moved to her waist again to unbutton the clasps of her skirt and petticoats.  When they were undone, she grasped her skirts in her fists and turned her head to look at Charles.  Charles tilted his head impatiently and raised up the end of the rope in his hands threateningly.  The girl immediately lowered her gaze to the floor, rose up on her knees and pulled her skirts down from her hips.  Her long, loose shirt fell down low enough to hide her complete nakedness from sight but seeing the lithe, womanly lines of her hips and legs reminded Charles that he hadn’t had a pair of shapely thighs spread wide for him in some time.  He pushed the thought away.  He’d lowered himself once to bed a woman of questionable birth; he wouldn’t do it again. 

The girl used one hand to hold her shirt over her nakedness while tugging her skirts off the rest of the way.  When they were off she shimmied farther away from Charles but not so far that the rope tightened on her neck.  Something about her fear, seeing her gagged and the way she tried to hide her body made Charles think about sex even more.  The thought of dominating a completely unwilling woman was more satisfying than paying the women at the brothel to please him.  Those women were working so to him, there wasn’t much forcing at all.  It was more like - persuasion.  This girl had no reason at all to please him except the very fact that he held her life in his hands.  What a powerful motivation!  It was titillating.  Charles took a breath and gestured to the girl to finish undressing.  She shook her head.  In a moment of kindness, Charles decided to relent.  After all, only her skirts were soiled.  Her skirts, her body and the floor. 

Charles stood and the girl recoiled from him until the rope was taut around her neck.  He merely handed her the ewer, wash basin and a rag. 

“Now clean yourself and your mess.  Do it well because that’s where you’ll be sleeping tonight.  Get every bit of filth out from there.”  He indicated the dusty space beneath the bed with his booted foot.  Charles watched with satisfaction as she obeyed him by pouring water from the ewer into the bowl and wetting the rag.  She reached between her thighs and washed herself and then down her legs.  Charles was aware of the conundrum facing her when it came time to wash the floor.  She would have to crawl under the bed and she wouldn’t be able to keep herself covered.  Charles waited and watched with silent anticipation. 

The sight of her pale backside was most satisfying when she did finally obey after a few threatening tugs on the rope.  It had clearly never been touched by the sun as her arms, neck and face had.  As she moved and repositioned to reach the farthest corners and the muscles in her legs and curving buttocks tensed and relaxed, Charles admired the show.  His hands ached to feel whether her bottom was as firm and sumptuous as it appeared.  Only moments later he gave in to the desires whirling in his head.  Leaning down, he opened his hand and landed one solid, mighty slap on her buttock.  Her entire body jerked and the sound of her head hitting the underside of the bed, along with her muffled shriek was almost enough to make him let go of all restraint.  Her taut, young bottom was indeed every bit as nice as Charles had assumed.   He wanted to mercilessly redden her backside and feel her skin grow hot from it.  Instead, he watched as she reached back with one hand to cover the pain, quivered where she lay, and then doggedly continued to clean the floor as the area where he struck her turned pink and then red.  His slap left a hand print so clear that he decided it was a thing of beauty and should be preserved in its singularity.  He’d branded her with his palm.  It was enough. 

When she was through cleaning the floorboards beneath the bed, Charles removed her gag and allowed her to wash her face with a fresh cloth, for she had grown even more dusty in the cleaning process.  After she had washed her skirts, he hung them in the front room to dry.  The dog took advantage of the opened door to dash in and jump on the girl’s lap.  Charles was happy to see her still kneeling on the floor when he returned, unmoved from the position he’d left her in aside from a few cautious pats to the dog in her lap and a sidelong glare in his direction.  She was learning very quickly to behave but Charles wasn’t ready to trust her fully by any stretch of the imagination.  He took the dog away, handed her a piece of bread from a loaf, cut her some slices of cheese and allowed her to drink as much water as she wanted.  He carried the dog over to the bed and sat down.  Beowulf settled comfortably into his lap and Charles spent a long time grooming his long coat with a woman’s hairbrush until it was fluffy and shiny.  For the most part, he ignored the girl but watched her out of the sides of his eyes.  He ate also and fed bits of cheese and dried meat to the dog. 

Charles put the food away, set Beowulf on the floor and squatted down in front of the woman.  He retied her wrists and ankles and was surprised when she made no noise of complaint against it.  Charles reached to her face and she leaned away until he pulled on the rope.  He slid his fingers along her angled jaw and tipped her face upwards toward his. 

“If you behave yourself, I’ll leave the gag off you.  But if you don’t, there will be repercussions.  You won’t like them.  Do you understand?”  The girl’s dark eyes screamed at him yet she only nodded and looked down at the floor.  Her hair fell forward and Charles stroked it back from her face. 

“That’s a good girl,” he whispered to her.  The girl shook her head away from his hand and batted at his arm with her tied hands.  Charles frowned. 

“For shame, girl!  I was praising you.” 

“I am not your dog!  I am a woman!  My name is Elia!”  she hissed angrily.  Charles stared into her defiant eyes, twirling the leash around her neck and raising his eyebrow at her. 

“Oh, yes, you ARE a woman.” Charles agreed.  He allowed his eyes to move downward to her legs and he rested his hand on her bare skin just above her knee.  She flinched but continued to glare at him even as she pulled her shirt tighter down between her clenched thighs to maintain at least some of her modesty.  Charles smiled as he slowly let his gaze move up her body to her face before continuing.

“As to whether you’re more than just a bitch… MY bitch… that remains to be seen.”  At last she looked away.  Charles knew he held all the power here and he felt triumphant.

“Good girl.”  He slid his hand up her leg until he met her hands where she tightly held her shirt over her sex.  He lifted his hand from her leg and turned her shoulders towards the bed.  She crawled under the bed as fast as she could despite her bonds.  Charles noted with more than a little satisfaction that his faded handprint was still just visible on her bare bottom.  He tied the end of the rope leash to the leg of the bed and cautioned her not to touch it.  With her safely stowed beneath the bed, Charles undressed for the night.  He could hear her ragged, shivering breaths when he was ready to turn in for the night so he retrieved a blanket for her and dropped it beside the bed.  She snatched it and he heard her working to get it over herself as he settled in to sleep.  

Charles found himself more than slightly miffed that the dog chose to sleep with her instead of in his usual place at the foot of the bed.  He felt the urge to make the woman sleep with him, just so he could have the softness of a female body next to his.  He was sure she wouldn’t be terribly obedient to that scenario and he once again resolved to behave himself and emulate the Grandmaster, a man with far more reserve than he.  Yet…  He hadn’t been as noble lately as he could be.  A thought came to Charles so suddenly that he nearly sat up in bed.  The girl beneath his bed frame might be the answer to one of the Grandmaster’s problems.  Perhaps he hadn’t been completely insane for snatching this little woman when he had the chance.  She certainly wasn’t ugly, and Master Kenway had taken a liking to her and even defended her, much to Charles’ chagrin. 

Charles smiled in the darkness as the beginnings of a plan formed in his mind.  It would take time but it could prove to be quite a satisfying redemption if it was handled correctly.  He would address it in the morning and see if his mistake could be turned into a triumph.


	5. Elia - The Ignominy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the tags and warnings going forward.

Elia lay awake on the hardwood floor in the grey light of early morning that filtered in through the window, sending some of the shadows away.  It was still very dark under the bed of the frightening man who had captured her and she could hear his heavy breathing above her.  His little black dog was a small comfort; its warm, fluffy body was curled peacefully next to her and its quiet, snuffling breaths as it dreamed its doggy dreams were rather heartwarming.  She stroked its soft ear and it lifted its head to give her a tiny, sleepy lick on her chin.  At least when the man had retied her bonds, he hadn’t cinched them as tightly as before.  They no longer dug into her skin and she could stretch her legs out without pulling on her arms and shoulders because he hadn’t trussed her up like a sheep for the spit.  Despite those small mercies, her body was sore from her restrictions and the hard surface of the floor beneath her shoulders and hips.

Elia shuddered when she remembered the feel of the man’s hand on her leg.  For a long moment, and not for the first time since he had captured her, she believed he was going to rape her.  He could have…. But for whatever reason, he preferred showing her that he could do it at any time over the actual act itself. 

It wouldn’t have been the first time she had been raped.  She had grown up on ships as a child, the only daughter of a man who had three sons before her and dozens of male sailors who worked for him.  Her mother hadn’t survived a storm far at sea when Elia was four, and everyone on board, including her own father and brothers, blamed her and her mother for the unlucky squall that nearly scuttled the ship.  Once she was old enough to learn to climb rigging and tie knots, she was expected to pull her weight but it wasn’t something anyone was happy about.  Her sex was a curse and she was the bane of the crew.  Every bad thing that happened was blamed on her, from the weather to a case of scurvy.  She became reclusive and detached from her family.  When she was sixteen, one of the sailors decided he should have her, so he cornered her and took his pleasure from her.  Elia had gone right to her father after but he had outright dismissed the accusation, only acknowledging that even if it were true, she had no one but herself to blame for developing a figure men wanted.  Elia bound her breasts, wore the most shapeless clothing possible and slept with a knife in her fist from then on and when the same sailor tried to do it again only a few weeks later she cut off most of his bottom lip and threw it overboard.  Her father was furious.  Her brothers shunned her.  The other sailors wouldn’t even acknowledge her existence. 

Fortunately, they were only days out from docking for the summer to sell their wares.  Elia kept to herself and spent as much time off the ship and away from the sailors – and her unsupportive family- as possible.  She did her duty and sold their whaling wealth.  Blubber, bones, hides, tusks and barrels of salt packed meat were the life blood of her people.  It was all she knew.  When she wasn’t selling she was crafting.  Bits of whale bone that were broken or otherwise unsellable became earrings, necklaces, fish hooks or beads under the patient work of her hands.  She sold these on the side and pocketed the money she made for her efforts.  More often than not, she slept under the open sky in a fallow field or in an unsuspecting farmer’s barn.  Elia was used to sleeping in the open while out at sea; being on the deck of a ship that was anchored as far as it could ever be from anything or anyone in the middle of the night was the only thing that made her feel free and beautiful.  She would try to count the stars that painted the sky but would eventually forget to count as she became lost in the beauty of their vast bounty. 

Inevitably, the days shortened and the summer’s warmth was slowly stolen away by autumn.  Elia’s heart grew cold as well.  As much as she loved the sea and riding upon its depths, she was a scourge to her father.  He and her brothers would be better off without her presence so in the middle of a September night, she snuck into her father’s cabin, stole all of her mother’s clothing from the trunk her father had filled with it, left the harbor and started walking west.  Elia didn’t stop walking for the better part of two days.  She slept for an hour or two at a time and then ventured on.  She signed on as a kitchen maid for a large farm owner in Brookline.  The work was hard but not without its own merit.  She appreciated the value of it and her palms were already callused from thousands of lengths of rope passing through her hands so she was ready to take on anything.  Autumn turned into winter and winter into spring.  The months passed quickly.  When the chores were done, an elderly maid named Mary took Elia under her wing and taught her how to read and write English and do needle point.  Elia drank in the knowledge like a drought-ridden plain soaked up a rainstorm.  For the first time in her life, she felt like part of a family.   Mary became a distinct mother figure to Elia and she loved her with all her heart.

 In late spring, Mary began to cough.  Her old, tired body weakened with frightening speed.  In the end, Elia spoon-fed her broth and water, even when she became delirious and combative from fever.  She died of the consumption in her lungs on an unusually balmy mid-May night.   Elia was heartbroken.  She stood apart from the rest of the servants at Mary’s burial and no one questioned her when she spent the next day by herself in the fields, neglecting her work.  Life went on but it felt brittle and broken again.

The days grew hot and the air was stagnant.  Elia longed for the smell of sea air and salt water on her skin, the creak of aged wood and the sticky black tar that smoked over hot coals and stained the fingers of the ones who patched the hulls of the ship.  Just as she had done when she left Boston eight months earlier, she slipped away in the night without notice. 

Her father and brothers were surprised to see her.  Elia felt a smug satisfaction that perhaps she had disappointed them by turning up like an unlucky chip.  Despite everything, she had defied their standards and survived on her own.  There wasn’t much to say between the five of them.  Elia took up her duties selling her family’s winter produce but she chose not to sleep on the ship unless the weather was bad. 

When it was time for her father to leave, Elia decided to stay behind.  She informed her father that it was her wish to remain in Boston whether he cared to support it or not.  He claimed he didn’t care one way or another, as long as she kept out of the way.  Every fall, Elia would leave and find work while her father and brothers sailed away to harvest the sea’s bounty.  She never worked at the same place twice.  Every summer, she would return and work at the docks. As the years passed, her brothers became distant.  Her father treated her like any other woman who worked in the same capacity as she.  Only once, when she shared a warm meal below decks with the crew, did Elia catch her father looking her way strangely.  She thought perhaps she resembled her mother and he regretted treating her with such callous disregard.    She never found out, for it never came into her hear to ask him. 

When Elia was 22, her father didn’t return with his ship.  Her eldest two brothers, Caetano and Dimas coldly informed her that she could collect the items she hadn’t stolen when she first left because it was her father’s wish for her to have them.  When she’d taken a small enameled cup and golden ring that had been left for her from her father’s cabin, her brothers banished her from the ship.  They told her she could pay to dine there or sleep there, but they had no true sister.  Only the youngest, Gil, seemed to harbor any regret for what had transpired between them over the years.  On a blustery night, Elia sought out shelter on the ship, offering her brothers’ asking price for a single night.  Gil returned her coins to her in the morning as she was leaving and promised to make sure she was treated fairly.  It sparked an argument between the three men but in the end, Elia’s silence and refusal to participate in the matter beyond bearing witness impressed the two eldest and they relented.  The old standard was restored and the issue never came up again.

Under the bed in her small prison, Elia ground her teeth and regretted deciding to take shelter on her brothers’ ship during the cold snap that had recently come through the area.  Perhaps if she had sheltered in a barn and not been agreeable to getting the food items her brothers had sent her to fetch, she might not have ended up in this horrid man’s clutches.  Sadly, she knew her brothers wouldn’t have waited for her to return.  They needed to set sail and they had plans to leave on the morning tide after her abduction. 

Elia thought about her captor as she stroked her fingers lightly through the little dog’s fur.  She remembered him distinctly from when she had worked at the Green Dragon Tavern over the fall and spring.  He was haughty and demeaning to all of the staff.  The other man who was frequently with him was much nicer to look at and clearly in a position of power, yet he wasn’t nearly as rude to those around him.  Elia still couldn’t fathom why this man would approach her and worse yet, attack her as he had.  There was no reason for it and her heart raced in fear, for she had no idea what he planned to do to her or why he had decided to keep her stored under his bed like a piece of luggage. 

As if her thoughts had reached up and shook him, the man shifted in bed.  The ropes crisscrossing the wooden frame supporting the mattress creaked under his weight and the little black dog stood up and yawned, its pink tongue curling upwards in a perfect circle.  It stretched and made its way out from under the bed to jump up and greet its master. 

“Slept the night with that little bitch, did you?   Beowulf, you old boy!”  Elia cringed at his words.  She slid back silently, deeper under the bed as his pasty feet came down onto the floor boards.  He had large, bulbous calluses on the back of each heel from his boots.  One of them was peeling on the side.  His ugly feet moved as he stood up and walked toward his bedroom door.  Beowulf followed him with his toenails clacking excitedly.  Elia listened to the man’s footsteps as he crossed the hardwood floor of the other room to let the dog outside.  He went outside as well but was only gone for a minute before he returned with the dog tap-tapping behind at his heels.  Cold air rushed in ahead of him and Elia clutched the blanket closer to her chin.

“Stay out here, boy,”  He said kindly to the animal as he shut the door to the bedroom.   His feet approached the bed.  The rope around Elia’s neck was at its extremity from shrinking back against the wall and she felt it tug as the man reached over and untied it from the bed post. 

“Get out from under there, girl.”  His command was accompanied by a tug on the rope.  Elia felt sick to her stomach and she clutched the blanket in her tied hands as best as she could as she scooted out sideways from beneath the bed.  The man was standing in just his long night shirt.  It came down to his mid thighs and covered his body well enough, but his spindly legs looked much like two, narrow, pale birch trees poking out from beneath the bottom hem.  He had some sections of red skin that appeared to cover the area behind his knees but Elia couldn’t be sure from her point of view on the floor.  His hair was unbound and in disarray where it hung about his shoulders.  The length of it served to accentuate where it was balding at the crown of his head.  When he squatted down in front of her, his shirt almost revealed his nakedness and Elia looked away. 

“I’ve decided what I’m going to do with you.  But I have some assessments to make.  It wouldn’t do to present a less than perfect offering.  Stand up.”  Elia clutched the blanket tighter and carefully stood.  She was unsteady on her feet from being in such cramped quarters and having her ankles tied together.  The man stepped close and touched her face gently before slipping his hand to the front of her neck and bending his fingers around it.  He pushed her and she toppled backwards onto his bed.  Elia cried out as she fell onto her back on the mattress and the man instantly straddled her with his hand over her mouth.  He came close to her face and spoke softly, yet his tone was threatening.

“You want the gag again?  Yes?”  Elia shook her head and the man sat back.  His breath had been terrible and his eyes bored into her for a long while as he knelt over her with his knees on either side of her hips.  The position of his knees had forced his night shirt up over his hips and his penis and scrotum were resting on her stomach.  It was mostly hidden in a dense thicket of black pubic hair but it was visible enough.  He leaned in closer and fed the end of the rope he held down between her tied wrists and then pulled the rope forward and up over her head.  Elia resisted it until she realized any pulling against the rope would only tighten it around her neck.  The man got off her and pulled the rope until her hands were resting on the mattress above her head before he tied the end to the bed frame.  He stood back and assessed his handiwork.  Elia’s entire body trembled.  She believed he would surely rape her now.  Her fear turned to surety when the man pulled the blanket out from around her body and flung it on the floor behind him.  Elia bent her tied legs up and turned her hips away to hide her nakedness from him but he didn’t stop her.  Instead, he took a knife out of his belt hanging on the night stand and Elia finally gave way to tears.  His unburdened hand stroked her leg from her tied ankle up her calf, followed the bend of her knee and then moved over the back of her thigh.  He squeezed her buttock, the same one he had struck the night before and then patted it gently.  Elia curled tighter and whimpered.

“Shhhhhh.  I’ll see all of what you have to offer now.”  He took the bottom edge of her shirt in his hand and reached under to poke the tip of his knife through the fabric of her shirt and cut down to where he held it.  He moved his hands up and repeated the process.  It was only a few moments before he had it cut all the way open from hem to neckline.  He left it covering her breasts and moved to her sleeves to cut them open from wrist to the center slice up the middle.  With a quick movement, he grabbed an edge of her shirt right next to where she lay on it and ripped it out from under her body, leaving her clothed only in her necklaces.  Elia reflexively tried to bring her arms down to cover herself but the rope tightened on her neck, closing off the scream she also attempted to get out.  She shook her head and tried to roll away but the man knelt down, grasped her bound ankles in his right hand and stretched her out on his bed.  He placed his left hand on her hip, restraining her so she couldn’t roll away and made a considering noise in his throat as his eyes swept over her body.  He reached for her breast.  Again, Elia tried to use her arms and only ended up strangling herself until she stopped fighting her bonds.  He fondled both breasts for some time, squeezing and lifting them in his left hand and pinching each of her nipples until they ached.   Only small sounds of fear and pain escaped Elia, for she was afraid of what he would do if she did actually scream.   He ran his hand down her abdomen and then slid his fingers down into her pubic hair and between her legs.  She fought to bend her knees up and hide herself from him but he used his right elbow against her leg and his hand on her hip to stop it.  He pressed his fingers down further between her thighs and pulled up on the soft skin of her labia, spreading them open as much has he could with her legs so close together.  Elia whimpered and tried to tighten her thighs together.  The man slapped her thigh and grasped her leg.  He pulled on it but Elia wouldn’t stop holding her legs tightly together.

“I will see what you have to offer.”  Elia shook her head and refused to relax her thighs.  He slapped her again, harder. The shock of pain was just enough of a window for him to pry her legs open.  He used his arm to hold her separated while he touched and examined her most intimate place.  He plucked at her inner labia, pulling on the skin and then leaning down to spit on her.  He rubbed it around with his fingertips and then took his hand away and allowed her to close her legs.  He resumed holding her hips and silently looked her over further.  His lips twitched and his thick, dark mustache shifted.

“Despite your breeding, you have an acceptable body.  More than acceptable.  Firm, ample breasts with high-set, reactive nipples of brown coloring… pleasing ratio of nipple to breast size, unblemished skin, fine hair on the pubis that isn’t overly expansive, pliable and notably dusky yet attractive genitalia… narrow waist, wide hips, strong legs, small wrists and ankles…  You’ll do nicely once I turn you into a proper lady.  I don’t know what Master Kenway sees in dark, wild women like you, but he clearly has a taste for them.  At least I can keep you out of the sun…”  He let go of her hips and Elia curled her legs up immediately.  Her captor moved closer and touched her lips with the fingers of his right hand. 

“Open.”  Elia hesitated and he gripped her jaw tightly until she opened her mouth.  He slipped his fingers in hooked them over her bottom teeth to pull her mouth open farther.  Using his fingers, he moved her tongue from side to side and appeared to be assessing her teeth like a horse.  In fact, she felt very much like he was assessing her as he would an animal at auction.  He took his hands away and then slid his left arm under her bent knees, pushing her thighs up towards her abdomen.  It sent her feet up towards the ceiling and almost before she knew what was happening, he’d plunged his fingers, wet from her own saliva, deep inside her vagina.  Despite the small amount of lubrication he’d spat upon her, it hurt, and Elia screamed.  The man swung her legs around to the side of his body and covered her mouth with his left hand.  Elia fought but he kept his fingers inside her no matter how she thrashed.  The rope was cutting off her breathing but Elia didn’t care.  She just wanted him to stop.  His incessant shushing and pressing down on her face at last brought her into a reluctant quietude.  He began moving his fingers inside her and Elia, humiliated beyond any sense, whimpered and shook.

“You have fight.  It’s imperative that stops.  I want you compliant for Master Kenway and you WIILL be compliant.”  He pushed his fingers in deeper to punctuate his words and Elia tipped her head back under his hand.  Elia’s captor watched her closely as he continued to move his hand rhythmically between her legs.  His thumb rubbed over a sensitive place and despite her horror at what was taking place, some of the pain eased the longer it went on, for her own treacherous body responded to his touch.  He made another noise of approval for he had noticed it as well.

“That’s good…. Be a good girl for Charles.  For Master…  That’s what you’ll call me.  Master Lee.”  Charles moved his hand off of her face and Elia gasped for air.  He fondled her breasts more as he continued to plunge his fingers in and out of her.  He pushed deep, curled his fingers inside her and found a place in the front of her abdomen that made her gasp when he pressed hard upon it.  It made her need to urinate, for it accentuated the feeling of her already full bladder.  He relentlessly worked that place and when she was nearly delirious, Charles spoke again.

“What do you call me, girl?”  He squeezed her breast hard as he spoke and Elia cried out and then whispered the title he had given himself.

“Master Lee,” 

“Have you had enough?”  Elia nodded vigorously.

“What was that, girl?  Speak up!”  Her captor barked.

“I have had enough!  Please!” 

“Please…”  he prompted.

“Please, Master Lee!  Please stop, Master Lee!”

“Not until I get what I want from you.”  Charles resumed his thrusting and reached down with his left hand to vigorously molest the sensitive little place hidden at the apex of her sex.  Elia thrashed and alternately suffocated and gasped for air as he forced waves of confusing sensations through her body.  At last she cried out and her back arched as her pelvic muscles spasmed uncontrollably around his fingers.

Charles smiled.  He was sweating from the struggle and exertion; beads of moisture ran down his balding forehead and the sides of his face.  He pulled his fingers from her body and stood up.  Raising his glistening fingers to his face, he smelled of her juices and then tasted them with the tip of his tongue.  Elia couldn’t help but notice that he had a full erection beneath his night shirt. He leaned over, grasped Elia’s ankles with his left hand and dragged her hips off the bed.  The rest of her body followed and the rope tightened on her neck.  She writhed and struggled to find air and only with her back arched painfully and her arms stretched far over her head did relief come.  Elia gasped for breath and watched helplessly as Charles moved closer, raising the edge of his shirt to expose himself completely.   He lifted his pink, engorged member in his palm and his lip curled beneath his mustache as he smirked down at her. 

“You taste good enough, I’ll give you that.  I’ve had prostitutes who aren’t so sweet.  That pleases me.” He grasped himself firmly and began pumping his fist. With each stroke, his fleshy, sparsely haired scrotum swung back and forth.  Elia stared past him as best she could, disgusted at his actions and unable to stop feeling the ways in which he had violated her, both inside and out.  She focused on the burning pain in her thighs and shoulders as she kept her body arched backwards so she wouldn’t be strangled further.  Charles’ efforts to pleasure himself increased and he grunted as he neared climax, drawing Elia’s attention against her will. He tilted his hips forward and lowered his head to look down at Elia. His seed gushed from him in several bursts as he continued to stroke himself, breathing heavily.  Elia flinched and turned her face away just in time.  Thick ejaculate spattered on Elia’s cheek, neck and breasts and ran down her body slowly. 

Satisfied, Charles crouched down so he was on Elia’s level.  He reached across the space between them and ran two of his fingers through his seed that trickled down between her breasts, swirling it around a nipple before lifting his coated fingers to her face. 

“Lick it.”  Elia cringed away and shook her head.  It was difficult to move much in her painful position.  He grabbed the rope above her head and pulled on it.  Elia opened her mouth to gasp but he dipped his semen covered fingers in and wiped them on her tongue. It was bitter and Elia wanted to vomit from the sticky texture. Charles let go of the rope above her head and pressed his fingers under her chin to keep her mouth shut until she swallowed his repulsive seed.  She barely managed it.  Charles gave her a final, painful pinch to her nipple and untied the rope from the bed post.  Elia collapsed forward onto her tied hands, gasping and retching.  Tears ran from her eyes and she fought against succumbing completely to them.

Charles left her there while he pulled on his pants and tucked his shirt in.  He opened the door to his front room and Beowulf trotted in.  He sniffed at Elia and pawed her hands while she coughed and spit on the floor.  Elia wasn’t sure whether Charles was playing some kind of game or if he truly had a twisted purpose that involved such perverted sexual acts.  Either way, it was a miserable situation and Elia feared it would only get worse for her. 


End file.
